


Leaves and Blooms, They Brush The Descending Blue

by AstridContraMundum



Series: After-comers Cannot Guess The Beauty Been [13]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, George and Shirley's kids don't believe, M/M, Romance, because now they are the most awkward uncles ever, improbable pop song, introspection and reminiscence followed by complete idiocy, one is always showing them magic tricks with cards and gambling chips, set in the early 1990s, that Morse and Bix used to be an emo couple who met at a party, the other is always asking how school is going
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:01:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26511826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstridContraMundum/pseuds/AstridContraMundum
Summary: Bixby helps Endeavour with his tie before they go downstairs to a wedding reception in Devon.But, for once, Bix is not the host, but rather one of the guests of honor.(based on the tumblr prompt "zip me.")
Relationships: Joss Bixby/Endeavour Morse
Series: After-comers Cannot Guess The Beauty Been [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1152587
Comments: 19
Kudos: 21





	Leaves and Blooms, They Brush The Descending Blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [human_dreamer_etcetera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/human_dreamer_etcetera/gifts).



> I looked up the top songs in the UK in 1991 for this fic .... and number four on the list was total serendipity, so I just had to write this! :D

It’s the little things that stick with you, that you always remember.

Those sunbursts of serendipity that descend upon you on like the leaf-fall on quiet autumn afternoons, or else some trifling detail—a memory of something novel, of something sweetly-out-of-place—that resonates in the heart, that leaves you with that poignant sense of longing that houses itself there, low in the base of your throat.

That was just how Bixby felt about the night they met.

Joss Bixby first met Endeavour Morse—as he had told the nice young clerks at the registry office in Copenhagen—at a party.

How perfectly ordinary.

Almost cliché, really.

But what he _hadn’t_ told them, was this: That the party had been one of his best, his brightest, his most fantastical. That the grand stone house that rose up amidst the Italian gardens and glorious, unapologetic fountains at Lake Silence was extravagant enough as it was, filled with Victorian gilt and filigree and golden excess—tapering Corinthian columns, chandeliers that blazed like diamond constellations, walls drenched in deep reds and greens and umbers and covered every inch by canvases—landscapes bold and daunting, Rococo pastorals, blushing with roses and willow, and still-lifes of pears and grapes and pomegranates far too rich for eating.

That, laid over this rich fabric, like a sheer scarf over a tapestry, was the glitter of the party—circles of chartreuse and rose and soft blue lights moving over the moving bodies on the dance floor, white balloons cascading down the stairway like strange, newly-discovered moons in the darkness, and soft red lanterns that added a pastiche of mystery—or even, if one fancied it—a little quiver of danger, to the whole affair.

Amidst this riot of wine and laughter and song, stood an old friend of Anthony Donn’s, like a still point at the center of a rotating kaleidoscope.

Pagan, they called him, if you could believe it.

And believe it, Bixby did.

Because Pagan alone, of all of Bixby’s guests, had not given himself up to the party, was not wearing his mask. Instead, he seemed to hold himself apart, regarding the scene with a face cold and austere and classical.

It was as if he had stepped out from some other world, a world in which the old gods still held sway.

Suddenly, the music intensified, a pair of guitars burning up their fretboards with a lick of psychedelic flame, and Pagan widened his overlarge blue eyes alarmingly, as if gravely offended by it all, by the very fraudulence of his age—as if, with one haughty look, he might reduce the band to ashes.

But yet… in the midst of this rather forbidding first impression, was one humanizing, even endearing, little detail.

Pagan’s black silk tie was deliciously askew.

A rush of warmth, like a tremor, had run down Bixby’s arm and into his hand… and, with it, an odd impulse, a yearning to reach up, to straighten that scrap of silk, to feel it soft and rippling between the sensitive tips of his fingers.

Part of the thrill of it, Bix had to admit, lay in imagining Pagan’s reaction, if he dared to do such a thing.

Would he look at him in the same fierce and thrilling way in which he regarded the band, as if his luminous eyes might place him under some spell, either turn him to stone or else set his already hot blood blazing, so that all the would remain of him would be a pile of ashes at his feet?

Damn.

What a way to go.

Or maybe ... just maybe… would he startle, surprised? Perhaps, just perhaps, would Pagan be caught so-off guard by the little act of chivalry that that wide mobile mouth—bracketed by those solemn parentheses—might curve into the fullness of a smile?

And … if Pagan smiled… might Bix be permitted to trace his jaw with tentative fingers, to see if he was man or marble? 

Might he… just perhaps…be allowed to brush a hand through the soft waves of hair that seemed to hold as many colors as all of his party lights? 

But Bixby always trusted his instincts, and it hardly took any great degree of _that t_ o see that any such attempt would be met only with an icy blue glare, a look of withering contempt.

And then that would be that.

Well.

That was fine, then.

Because Bixby was a man who knew how to wait.

And so, he flexed the hand at his side, trying to redirect the tingle that hummed through his touch-starved fingers. 

How odd should it be that, twenty-four years later, he should be here, in a snug guest bedroom of a brick house in Devon, watching that same man as he stood before an oval full-length mirror, cursing under his breath as he struggled with his tie. 

That now, to reach out, to touch that band of silk, to take it softly in his hands—even to tie it for him—should seem the most natural thing in the world.

“Here,” Bix said. “Let me.”

Endeavour seemed to sag with relief at the words, as if happy to relinquish the responsibility of it all. He lowered his hands and turned on the spot, raising his stubborn chin so as to give Bixby space in which to work, to take up the undone ends of the tie that slipped through Bix’s expert hands like water.

“I don’t know why George and Shirley felt the need to do this,” Endeavour hissed, looking dutifully up at the ceiling.

“Everyone’s just happy for us,” Bix replied. “They want to help us celebrate. Nothing wrong in that, is there?”

“It’s ridiculous, all of this fuss. The thing was done a month ago. And neither of us is hardly any sort of blushing bride.”

Bixby quirked a smile, ran his fingers along the tails of silk, holding onto the ends to pull him gently closer.

“Speak for yourself.”

Endeavour quirked a dutiful smile, but it wasn’t his real smile, but rather only a lopsided sort of smile.

A lake house sort of smile.

Bixby frowned as he ran one end of the tie through a loop.

There was something off about Endeavour, something niggling at his edges, fraying on his nerves.....

It was true that Bixby had been the one to pop the question as they had stood before the Claesz at the Rijksmuseum, he who had suggested that they drive on from Amsterdam to Copenhagen, rather than return straight home. That Endeavour had never been as keen on the whole idea as Bix had been.

“Why do we need a piece of paper to tell us what we already know?” had been his constant refrain.

But for Bixby, it wasn’t enough for them to know. He wanted the world to know.

But then, Endeavour never did care much for the opinion of the world.

Or perhaps it had something to do with his parents? Their marriage, Bixby knew, had been difficult—enough so that, even though it seemed to Bixby that Endeavour had been raised comfortably middle class, it was equally true that there seemed to be something impoverished about his childhood—something that left him by turns to be both warier and needier than most people Bix had met. 

Perhaps he saw their trip to Copenhagen as the beginning of the end? The start of that inevitable downward spiral?

Still…. as he had said… it was a little late for a case of prenuptial jitters, wasn’t it?

“So,” Bix asked, searchingly, only half in jest. “What are you saying? You aren’t already tiring of me, now that I’m an old ball and chain, are you?”

“Of course, not,” Endeavour snapped. He pulled away, then, turning toward the mirror to fidget again with his tie, and in the process, wrenched it completely awry.

“It’s still not straight,” he groused.

“That’s because you mussed it. Come here.”

Endeavour spun back around at once with a gruff sigh, lifting his chin obediently once more. Bixby straightened his collar to begin again, and, as his fingers worked, he could see the pulse beating there, rapid and shallow, in his throat. 

In that subtle tremble, Bix came to realize that Endeavour’s nerves had nothing to do with their trip to Copenhagen, and everything to do with their descent down the stairs and into George and Shirley’s living room.

That perhaps he had pulled the tie loose on purpose, in order to delay the moment of what he saw as his reckoning.

It had been more than two years since they had been back to Britain, since they had seen the old Cowley crowd.

And here, at a small gathering in a cozy country house, Endeavour would certainly look odd, carrying his bag about, keeping his notebook close at hand.

Was he afraid they would find him much changed?

Afraid that they might notice that he might ask the same question more than once? Or that he, who had once had a reputation for having a mind sharp as a tack, might be slow to come up with a name?

Long-ago things he remembered quite well, even though he might be foggy on a specific detail or two.

Perhaps Endeavour was already imaging it: how Strange might say, “Remember that day at the pub, when…” or, “Remember that mad Thompson case?” leaving him with no other option but to smile that strained, polite smile, the one that Bixby had come to know so well.

Or perhaps he worried that he might get lost on his way from the living room to the dining room, even though George and Shirley had already given them a quick tour of the place when they had first arrived.

Bixby had seen him do that, in unfamiliar places, too.

His fingers brushed the bare skin of Endeavour’s throat as he worked the tie—and then, he felt it—a definite, nervous swallow.

Bixby’s hands stilled on the strands of silk for a moment as if in sympathy, as if to give him a moment to collect himself.

But Endeavour misunderstood his hesitation, and made instead an impatient face.

“Would you please just fix it?” he said.

Bixby frowned.

Because he didn’t think that he could. 

He _could_ get his tie right, though, and so he began again to twist and flip the fabric, but, all the while, he felt a pit in his stomach growing, as if Endeavour’s case of nerves were contagious, until he began to dread going downstairs to the party, too.

It wasn’t at all what he had hoped for in this day.

With Endeavour scowling as he was, all forbidding austerity, Bixby felt as if they were going backwards, rather than forwards. It was as if it were Pagan who stood here under his knowing hands, glowering with blue eyes sharp and fierce, guarded and mistrustful.

Now that they were here, Bix wanted nothing more than to start their new lives together amongst their oldest friends—and yes, even, their family, really—or at least Endeavour’s family, and now, perhaps, by extension also his own—as their own best and truest selves, and not as the shadows of their pasts—not as The Great Bixby, the glittering host who never once lowered his mask, or as Pagan, who had once spent a summer in a cabin, brooding and drinking, locked in a lonely self-exile.

Bixby paused, considering his work, which was slipshod to say the least. He undid the last two steps and began again, sending Endeavour once more into a fit of impatience.

“Never mind,” he said. “I can do it.”

Bixby said nothing, only watched him as turned away, his fingers fumbling as he pulled the tie loose.

Outside, the trees billowed green and sweet and lovely with all the ripeness of midsummer, but Bixby’s thoughts had wandered off, off to a snow-dusted day long ago, brilliant and shining with all of the pure white light of clear December, off to a day when he and Endeavour had gone walking out in the woods around their house in Lorraine, searching for mistletoe.

It wasn’t long before Endeavour had noticed a small bunch of green high up in a bare limb, and Bixby had reached back with practiced aim, sent his football spiraling, and—for once—missed his mark.

“ _That was very good,” Endeavour said. “Next time, knock some down.”_

_Bixby looked to him sharply, searching his face for signs of sarcasm, but Endeavour had already wandered off, after the errant ball._

_Once he found it, rather than handing it over, he turned and called out to him, declaring the space between two distant trees the end zone, and then he took off running._

_And Bixby started after._

_Endeavour spiked the ball down to the ground in triumph just seconds before Bixby tackled him, rolling him in the leaves, and he was breathless, laughing._

_It was such a sweet and aching echo of their first days together, of days and nights when they had met in the woods around Lake Silence, that it occurred to Bixby, for the first time, just how far they had come._

_They used to travel about, each in his own heavy fog, each hidden behind his own mask—in the guise of Joss Bixby and in the guise of Pagan—until some wayward spark met through the mist and ignited, leaving them to look clearly at one another, leaving them as merely two people trapped in webs of dissemblance, lies of their own devising._

_And each waved a hand as if to clear a way through the mist for the other, until each showed his own true face—so that the debonair host of elegant parties and the bitter young man, holed up in his small cabin with only his Scotch and his fear and his exploding words for company—fell away like phantoms, leaving them their own best and truest and simplest selves._

_They were younger now, than those brittle personas they had once so clung to, that was the heart of it._

_Younger, and yet older, too._

_Much wiser, here, as two overgrown idiots wresting in leaves frosted lightly with snow, than they had ever been in their evening suits, watching one another from across a glittering room._

There had been longing in those early days, but less of laughter.

The laughter came afterwards, and even now, as Endeavour stood before him, as cross as two sticks, looking into the mirror and pulling at his tie, Bixby couldn’t help but smile at all the memories that filled the space between this moment and the night they met— Endeavour’s tie, then, as now, ridiculously askew.

Of all of those long and lovely afternoons when Endeavour had appeared in the doorway of his study, dressed in a kilt and fly plaid, with a smile half-suggestive, half-smirking, as if he was taken with his own daring.

Of a day when they had sat in a rowboat in a silver-blue river the color of a dream outside of Venice, when Bix had bested him in a conversation about one of those old Greeks or Romans he was so keen on—what’s-his-name, Lucretius—and of the sweet and stunned confusion on Endeavour’s face when he realized that Bixby had left him speechless, utterly without a retort.

Of the night Endeavour had woken him, wearing those ludicrous glasses Bix had once bought as a disguise to visit him in hospital, the ones that magnified his already overlarge eyes so that he looked a like an alien overlord. 

“Merry Christmas, Joss Bixby,” he had said, in a half-assed imitation of Donna Reed. 

Of an early winter’s morning, when, the world outside their windows still dark, they had woken up before their guests to open their gifts alone, beneath the softly glowing Christmas tree, and Endeavour had given him a bottle Muscadine wine.

Or even of one of those earliest days, back when they had walked out amidst the spiraling snow, and Bixby had tried to explain to him how he felt about the world—that it _wasn’t_ all meaningless absurdity, as Endeavour seemed to believe, but rather that there were causes and effects and ... structure, and …. some _plan_ , some end-goal behind it all.

“You sound like a twentieth-century Dumb Ox of Oxford,” Endeavour said.

And even though Bixby, missing the allusion, didn’t smile then, he smiled now.

Just as he had on that summer’s day sometime in the early seventies, back when he had sat angry and fuming, caught in traffic on the way to Heathrow, and Endeavour had turned on the radio and sang a pop song, all of his considerable inhibitions abandoned as he belted out the mindlessly catchy refrain.

What had it been?

“Jennifer Sometimes?”

No.

“Make Believe.”

Bixby huffed a soft breath of a laugh at the memory of it, and—as Endeavour continued to mess about with his tie—Bix reached up to his own and pulled it loose, letting the silk band run in one fluid stream free from his collar.

Endeavour looked up at once.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“You know,” Bixby said. “You’re right. I don’t think I want to go down to this party, after all. Why don’t we just stay here, upstairs?”

“We can’t do that,” Endeavour said. “What will people think?”

Bixby regarded him with sultry eyes, as, one by one, he began to undo the buttons on his shirt.

“I can’t imagine what they might think, old man.”

Endeavour’s face fell into an expression of uncertainty, as if he feared for Bixby’s sanity.

“What are you doing?”

But Bixby only smiled— his old, closed-lipped curve of a smile, the one meant to charm, the one that he had once bestowed on all and sundry as he worked the room.

_Perhaps_ he could pull it off.

It was, after all, a song that could be spoken, rather than sung. A song to be danced to … and while it was true that he wasn’t much of a singer, he had always been a good dancer.

“Bix?” Endeaovur asked. “Why are you…?”

“I’m too sexy for my shirt,” he explained, airily.

_“What?”_

And then, Bix dove straight into it, adding in an edge of a beat as he undid his buttons in a slow pantomime.

_“I’m too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt… So sexy it huuuurts.”_

“Oh, god,” Endeavour said, faintly distressed, putting a hand to his face. “Please, just… just stop.”

But it was too late, now, old man. Because now he was getting to the chorus, right to those verses that could really swing if you put a little oomph into it, if you did the thing right.

_“Cause I’m a model, you know what I mean, and I do my little turn on the catwalk.”_

He reached out to take Endeavour’s hand, threading their fingers together so that Endeavour’s palm pressed warm and soft against his own, and then set his other hand at his waist, beginning to turn him on the spot— even as his big eyes widened as if he were slightly horrified.

_“On the catwalk. I do my little turn on the catwalk.”_

It was true, Bix couldn’t quite carry a tune, but he could dance—he still had it in spades, that same easy prowess he had had in his prime, that old instinctive grace, and he moved Endeavour about the room as if he were weightless, as if he were walking on warm summer air. 

_“Yeah, on the catwalk. I do my little turn on the catwalk.”_

Endeavour, of course, held himself with all the stiffness of a goddamned tree.

But Bixby hadn’t expected anything else, really. Endeavour always lived so much in his head, treating his body at times as if he were uncomfortable even admitting he had such a thing.

But that was alright. Bixby had enough grace for the both of them.

With Endeavour’s hand in his … he was sure he could move them all the way across the stars, all on his own volition.

Because, now, Endeavour was more than just the real, warm weight beside him, giving life to the specter of Joss Bixby.

He was truly and really his, they were each other’s, and he had the paper to prove it. 

“ _I’m a model, you know what I mean, and I do my little turn on the catwalk….”_

“Bix,” Endeavour said.

And even that syllable, which was, in fact, a lie, sounded true in his mouth.

They were family now, and no one could dispute it.

When Bixby had hopped that train cutting like a bullet through the woods outside of Oxford, Mississippi, when he had scrambled aboard that ship in New York, a fake passport in his pocket, he hadn’t really thought it through, all that he was leaving behind in assuming a new identity.

He hadn’t known, then, that once you put on the mask, it’s not so easy to take it off again. That his life might very well run the danger of morphing into some sort of florid and histrionic opera, one in which the protagonist, full of hubris, picks up a magic mask, little realizing that it also carries a curse, little realizing that, by the final scene, he might find it’s become his actual face.

He hadn’t understood, all of those long years ago—back when he had sat on the porch swing listening to his great uncle ramble on into the night, telling him tale after tale, while all the while the reassuring sounds of his parents’ laughter and of dishes clinking gently in the sink resonated from within the tiny house—that, back when he had slouched, swaying and dreaming as he leaned against the swing’s armrest, the cicadas humming in the trees and the lightning bugs blinking out in the yard in lazy points of golden phosphorescence—that he had taken it for granted, that sense of belonging, that feeling of family, that glow of unconditional love.

And it just felt _right,_ being back within the circle again.

He turned Endeavour around once more before the open window, crooning out the next verse.

_“I’m a model on the catwalk…. Yeah, on the catwalk… I shake my little tush on the catwalk,”_

He added an apt little flourish at that last line— one that, just as he expected— prompted an immediate response from Endeavour. 

“Oh, GOD, no,” Endeavour protested.

Although perhaps not that one.

“You don’t approve of my chorographical choices, old man?” Bix asked.

“You have no idea how humiliating this is.”

_“I’m too sexy for my car, too sexy for my car.”_

“And that’s really saying something,” Bix added, in a breathless little ad-lib between the beats.

_“Too sexy for my car….too sexy by faaaaar....”_

The line about the car seemed, at last, to be the arrow striking home, finding the weak spot in Endeavour’s armor, and abruptly he turned his face away, fighting back a smile.

_“I’m too sexy for Milan, too sexy for Milan, New York and Japaaaan.”_

Endeavour shook his head then, finally seeming to let himself go a bit, to concede to being moved about the floor as they turned in circles over the small stretch of carpet at the end of the bed—even though he was still struggling to keep a straight face, as though careful of his dignity.

“You’re smiling,” Bixby said.

“Only because you’re so utterly ridiculous.”

Bixby cast his face in an expression of mock-sorrow at that, because the next verse fit right in with Endeavour’s disapproval. 

_“I’m too sexy for my love, too sexy for my love .. loves going to leeeeeave me.”_

Bixby spun him around and then dipped him, so that now he was truly laughing.

_“I’m a model, you know what I mean, I make my little turn on the catwalk.”_

But then, Endeavour seemed to freeze up in his arms as he hung there, mid-air, looking at the door from upside down, his eyes wide with alarm.

Bixby followed his gaze to find that Shirley Fancy was there in a blue party dress, leaning in the doorframe, her face so impassive that it was easy to see why she had been made detective so soon after joining the Yard. 

“We were wondering when you were coming down. George has got the champagne all poured out,” she said. “Everyone’s just waiting for the toast.”

“Ah,” Bixby said. “Well. You might have knocked.”

“I did.”

“Ah. We’ll be right there.”

Her face remained perfectly Sphinx-like, as if nothing on earth could astonish her.

“Would you like me to see if one of the kids has this on a CD?” she asked. “Is this your song? George had some songs from ’67 on some sort of mix tape, but we could ….”

“No,” Bixby said. “That’s all right.”

“I think you better bring Morse up again. His face is going red.”

And then her brow furrowed in concern.

“Do you need help?” she asked. “Has you back….?”

“No,” he and Endeavour said at once.

She nodded, then, and closed the door carefully, as if the bedroom contained a couple of wild animals she was afraid to rile, and immediately, Bix heard a low murmur from behind the door that could only be George’s voice, and then a burst of laughter from the hall.

It was enough to send Endeavour over the edge.

His laugh was a long time coming, beginning with a low noise rather like air being let out of a balloon, and then he was so lost to it that he wasn’t even trying to support himself, but rather simply hung there, heavily in his arms like a dead weight, until he slipped out of his grasp and slid down onto the carpet, shaking helplessly.

Bixby straightened, considering him.

“It’s not that funny,” he said.

But that only provoked another burst, one more difficult to keep inside, evidently, until it turned into the sort of uncontrollable laughter that almost seems to create its own circle.

“Your _face,”_ he managed, at last, wheezing to catch his breath.

Well.

That was alright.

Endeavour certainly was now a far cry from the Pagan he had first met, the one who had lain on the floor of the lake house, full of despair at the news that Bix had sent his notebook into a publisher’s office.

It was true, they were hardly blushing brides, or even fresh and new bridegrooms of one-and-twenty. They were men who had seen much of the world—he, perhaps, more than Endeavour—even _too_ much, some might say.

They were certainly past the point that Dante had said to be “mid-way through the journey of our life,” that point that Endeavour had teased him about so long ago.

Lately, he had even begun to notice more and more of them—strands of white mixed with the dark hair at his temples. And it had been years since Endeavour’s hair, almost overnight, had turned prematurely from autumn auburn to soft winter silver. 

They might have grown older, but, as Bix stood before the open window, his heart felt new, as if it were expanding with a bright and unexpected happiness, all the way out to Endeavour’s goddamned moons of Saturn. As if his heart was full of a hundred new springs and summers, reaching as a tree leaves and blooms, they brush the descending blue, that blue as boundless as his dreaming.

Bixby reached down to grasp Endeavour’s hand, to pull him upright again to stand beside him, but Endeavour remained as he was, didn’t help him at all—twisting instead at the end of his arm like a kite in the wind.

They really should be getting downstairs. Everyone was waiting, and …

Ah, the hell with it.

May as well go with it, end on one last little line before taking his final bow. 

He pulled up on Endeavour’s arm once more, and this time, Endeavour managed to get his feet beneath him, hoisting himself up like a mountain climber.

Once he was upright, however, Bix kept urging him forward, tipping him so that they stood face to face.

Endeavour blinked, surprised by the sudden intensity of his expression.

“What’s your name, baby?” Bix murmured.

He had only just begun to manage a straight face, but now Endeavour was dissolving again, so that he could barely get the three syllables out.

“Josephine,” he sputtered, and then promptly cracked up again. 

For a moment, the world faded, and it was just the two of them, as it always would be from here on out, and Endeavour took a deep breath, wiping at his eyes.

“Ready?” Bix asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “I suppose so.”

Endeavour started moving toward the door, when, suddenly, he stopped and turned back to him.

“Don’t call me that in front of anyone else, though,” he said.

“Of course not, old man,” Bixby said, primly, doing up his buttons and doing up his tie. “Of course not.”

He waited until they were half-way down the stairs before he said it.

“Only in front of Strange.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

Or maybe the right one.

Because Endeavour spun around on the stairs, looking up at him sharply in surprise, but then he was smiling, his eyes shining, just as if they were full of that same wonder that Bix had felt as he had stood by the open window ... that same breathless brush of descending blue.

**Author's Note:**

> Technically, that early on, it would have been termed a "civil union," rather than a "marriage..." but Bix thinks that's just semantics...
> 
> Also, I am not quite sure if they might have had to have been citizens of Denmark to have filed at city hall, but I don't put it past Bixby to have applied for dual citizenship.... or... I'm sorry to say... even to have bribed someone.
> 
> Oh, Bix....


End file.
